


Was

by lostyourwar



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mentions of Terry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:21:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostyourwar/pseuds/lostyourwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ian was the vacant blue eyes and the painfully dark circles beneath them."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Was

Ian was the thin layer of dirt that coated his skin. He was the eggs and the toast left untouched at the table, and then he was the empty spot when they stopped pretending things would change. He was the pillow, soaked in tears that were only shed at night when he couldn't tell if his eyes were shut and when the bed felt too wide around him and there was no shame. Ian was the half-empty bottles that littered the ground, and the thick scent of alcohol when they'd tip over and soak into the carpet.

That morning, Mandy had decided to stop by the house after work to grab another warm sweater- fucking Chicago weather could be a temperamental bitch- before heading off to visit the Gallaghers. It had already been two months, but time wasn't doing the healing thing it was supposed to. The two families- or at least, most of its members- found comfort recounting happy memories or simply being in each other's company. It helped, she'd learned, to forget for a little while. As she opened the door, though, she could hear him.

"Fuck!"

The sharp sound of glass shattering propelled her through the threshold before she could even think about what she was doing. Even if she hadn't heard his voice, it was undoubtedly coming from her older brother's room. She stopped outside the door with a hitched gasp. Glass bottles were broken into shards all around the small bed, glittering in the bright sunlight that poured in through the window. The heady aroma of beer was stronger than usual, overpowered only by a familiar metallic odor- blood. She found Mickey sitting between the end of his bed and the door to the bathroom, face swollen and wet. Mandy never thought she'd see her brother cry, and looking at the pathetic red-faced boy curled up on the sole untarnished patch of carpet, she realized she never wanted to.

"What the fuck," she breathed, not daring to step into the room. All that glass would tear up her boots, and she wasn't getting new footwear anytime soon.

He tried for menacing, but the wobble in his voice only made him seem more pitiful, "Get the fuck out."

Ian was the ocean of glass shards that distanced the world from Mickey.

Clearly, she had to do something before Mickey shredded up his hands any more than they were. With a resigned groan- yes, she would have to deal with this before dealing with her own grief- she stomped over to Terry's old room. She tightened her sweater around herself; it felt like a fucking freezer in there. The temperature didn't just come from its lack of a heater, she thought as she peeked under the bed. There was nothing to find there. No, she guessed Terry's cold fucking soul still haunted that room, night after night. The brown closet door to the left caught her attention. With a satisfied grunt, she tossed it open. After reaching for his pair of unused work boots, she turned to flip the bird at seemingly nobody. "Fuck you, Terry," she hissed and flew out the door.

She made busy and slipped her shoes off before climbing into her father's. They were huge on her small feet, but she balanced them precariously and trudged back into Mickey's chaos. He was staring at his bloodied hands, as though he were surprised to see the cuts and gashes that decorated it. There was an eerie hiss coming from the toilet; it was the only sound in the room. Well, that and the soft involuntary hiccups in her brother's breath. She crunched through the pieces, briefly impressed by how Terry's boots didn't even scratch. Fucker did always keep the good things to himself. When she reached the tiny island Mickey had made for himself, she extended her hands. "Mick," she called softly.

He didn't look up. "You're gonna stand up and get on the toes of my boots, okay? We'll get out but you need to be careful." The tone of her voice was gentle, patient, as though she were speaking to a child. Mickey didn't move, even as she bent over to capture his hands. He flinched, moved his bleeding hand away, and a few pieces of glass tinkled with the others. "Fuck, are there still bits of glass in your hands?"

She watched them move and indeed, there they were, like ruby gems engraved deep into his flesh. Yeah, that was going to require more than a first aid kit. Still, he was in a delicate and dangerous place, so she stood there, and she waited.

It took at least twenty minutes before Mickey glanced up, confused as to why she hadn't left before and why she wasn't yelling now. She simply raised a brow, though nothing in her face hinted at exasperation. His voice still trembled weakly, but she kept her gaze unmoving. He'd hate to see pity in her eyes, though she deeply felt it. "I heard him."

"Ian is gone," she explained, as though this was the first time she was telling him.

"He told me to go to sleep with him," Mickey continued, ignoring her. His voice sounded dry and rough, monotonous. Scared. "And we fell asleep, and now he's just..."

Ian was the vacant blue eyes and the painfully dark circles beneath them. "Gone," she finished, nodding. The glass snapped harshly as she shifted her weight. His face showed no reaction, as though he weren't even aware of her presence. Soft breaths puffed out of his cracked lips, and then he addressed her, "He can't just be gone. That makes no fucking sense. He's a person. He can't just go into the ground and disappear."

She didn't know how to respond. Mandy didn't believe in God, neither did Mickey. They had come to the conclusion that there was no divine being when Terry had beaten the shit out of Mickey in front of his sister. The boy had talked back while their dad was drunk, and Terry was merciless. That night, Mandy sat cross-legged at Mickey's side, wiping the dried blood from his nose. "God is the scariest fucker in the world, giving us a dad like Terry," she whispered. He just watched her. She gently dabbed at his swollen eye. "There is no God," he responded after a moment, and his bottom lip trembled. Mandy pulled him into a hug and nodded, talking so they could act like he wasn't crying, "Not a one. Just us, Mick." 

Death, as a result, was a perplexing subject. Carefully eyeing the jagged fragments beneath her, she lowered her body until she was crouched, hovering just over the glass. She was nearly at eye-level with her brother. "We need to get out of here. He wouldn't want you to be like this."

Mickey sighed and ran his fingers through the mess gently, so as not to cut himself further. "He doesn't exist. But how? He existed two months ago."

The hiss in the bathroom was the only sound in the room. She could offer him no answers, no relief from his torment. Ian was the ghost that haunted Mickey in his dreams, the laugh he heard when he sat alone in his room. The ache in his head as he tried to remember everything, the blood from his lip as he held back tears, realizing he was already starting to forget.

"I read somewhere that humans shed cells all the time, so even though his body is down there, he's also everywhere. That's kinda cool."

A sharp inhale echoed in the room as Mickey shoved his wounded hand into his pockets. Mandy winced. He pulled out a little red box of Marlboros and a black lighter. After lighting his own, he offered her one. The only person he'd shared his cigarettes with had been Ian, and even then he'd played it off like it annoyed him. She sucked the smoke deep into her lungs before stating, "Ian will never leave, not as long as we keep his memory alive."

He closed his eyes. His voice broke as he mumbled, "What if I'm already forgetting?"

She tapped the stoge on the frame of the bed, and the burnt ash fell onto the glass. Mickey stared at the little dying embers, his shame hanging in the air with the swirling smoke.

"You'll never forget him. Jesus fucking Christ, look at you. You forgot what, where you went the fifth time you saw each other? The details aren't important. As long as you keep him with you wherever you go, he'll be here."

Ian was the bloodstained hands that reached for her, the embrace between two siblings as they calmly maneuvered their steps so Mickey's bare feet wouldn't slip off the toes of the boots. Ian was everywhere, and nowhere at once.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, a lot of this came from my journal, because death is weird. this is completely unbetaed, and doesn't really follow canon. i hope you like it.


End file.
